Translating.

I was reminded of one of my favorite poems last night. I found it in a hard cover edition of translated poetry that I picked up in a used book store in Asheville, North Carolina several years ago, and I used a line from it as the title and description of this journal. The introduction to the book was written by the translator, who was describing the difficulties of translating poetry. I forget how complex a poem is. I roll my eyes at them. I forget that each word in a poem is carefully chosen to carry the most meaning and weight and grace and charm. Words in any writing form are important, but in poetry they are everything. A word is employed for the beauty of its sound, for its capacity to carry several meanings in just a few characters, for the simplicity or the ostentation of its appearance. And that in the native language of the poet. But to translate Shakespeare or Donne to Japanese or Swedish? The task must be almost insurmountable. Some poems must be utterly impossible. And all must lose something. What does the translator sacrifice? Form for function. Aesthetic for meaning. Does the double entendre limp along after one entendre is amputated and left in a garbage bag on the side of the road?

Attempting to translate poetry must be like the attempt to share a personal experience. Or that's how I imagine it. How do I translate my perception of a moment and how do I transmit it to another? How can I be sure, that done, that the other will understand as I intended for them to understand? How can he then translate back for me what I've shared to reassure me? If you've ever used FreeTranslation.com, you may know what I mean. Write something beautiful. Translate it to Spanish or Chinese. Then translate that translation. What comes back is a far cry from your original message. And aren't you glad that you checked before you sent it to someone?

I finally went to McNultey's Bitter End by the graveyards on Canal last night. Jack said that it was a dive, but I have always loved the name and had to know for myself. And they had pool tables, which suited my mood. The crowds of college kids and suits were all next door at The Bulldog. McNultey's was nearly empty. Jazz was piped into the room. Old-fashioned jazz, not that clankety-clank-zoop-zoop sort of modern, experimental jazz. A band came in and began to play after we'd been there for a little while. More good jazz. Great jazz. And the place wasn't a dive to my eyes. The wood was warm and clean. The lighting was complementary. The company was excellent. One of the last songs that they played before they packed up for the night was "Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans." I do. Do you?